


In Sickness and In Health

by autumnlouise



Series: Baby, It's Cold Outside [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sick Molly, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 15:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnlouise/pseuds/autumnlouise
Summary: When Molly Hooper falls ill, her boyfriend Sherlock Holmes proves to be a very efficient caregiver.





	In Sickness and In Health

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Autumn here. I can't believe it's been almost two weeks since I last uploaded something here! Life has been flying by; the pre-Christmas weeks are always so busy. I have loads of in-progress one shots that I just need to finish and upload, and it's winter break now as well, so hopefully I should be publishing more in the next few days. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fluffy little sickfic. I love seeing couples taking care of each other, and I feel like most of the Sherlolly sickfics are Molly taking care of Sherlock, so I decided to do one the other way around. That, and I am currently writing this wrapped in a blanket and being sick myself. Sadly, I do not have a Sherlock of my own to take care of me... so I just had to indulge in some fluff to make myself feel better!

In the Barts Hospital Morgue, Molly Hooper was not having a good day. She was barely halfway through her twelve-hour shift and was already feeling horrible. The previous day, she had started feeling a little off, with a slight headache and a sore throat. She had thought she’d be fine after sleeping it off, but the next morning she’d woken up with her head pounding, nose and ears totally clogged, and the beginnings of fever chills. But it had been too late to call in sick, so she’d been forced to brave the Tube and drag herself from her apartment to Barts. 

She’d done several autopsies this morning and had chosen to spend the first part of the afternoon doing paperwork- it was easier to get things done when she was sitting down and not worried about passing out on top of a dead body. But the chills that wracked her body and the pain radiating from her head made it difficult to concentrate. She was grateful that she’d chosen to wear layers that morning- it was so cold in the morgue and her office.  _ So. Cold.  _  Goosebumps ran up and down her arms, and she was shivering so hard that her teeth chattered. It was so hard to keep her heavy eyes open… the words on her papers started to blur into fuzzy black blobs. She should get a coffee. She  _ really _  needed to stay awake. She just… had to… get through the day…

Maybe she could just close her eyes for a moment before she got up for that coffee…

The next thing she knew, someone’s hand was on her shoulder, and she was being shaken awake. “Molly? Molly, are you all right?”

“Whaaa–?” Molly could barely lift her head up; her clogged ears and nose made it feel bowling-ball heavy. The headache had increased from a dull pulsing to a roaring pain. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, and barely half-opened; a paper she had been reading earlier was stuck to her cheek.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were standing in front of her, both looking at her with anxious expressions. “I-I’m sorry, was I asleep? Oh, God, how long was I out?” She quickly turned to look at the clock, but instantly regretted it; the slightest movement sent the room spinning, and her head throbbed in protest. She let out a little cry of pain. Instantly, Sherlock’s hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. 

“It’s five o’clock,” John said, crouching down to get a closer look at Molly. Five o’clock?! She had been asleep for  _ four hours. _ She had so much work to catch up on… “You look horrible, Molly. You really should clock out early.” 

“No, issokay,” Molly slurred, gripping the edge of her desk to steady herself. “I’m- I’m  _ fine _ .”

Sherlock pressed an ungloved hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up.” he chastised, voice sharp with worry. “Molly, you’re ill.”

Molly closed her eyes. “Really, Sherlock, it’s no big deal,” she croaked. She moved to try and stand up to help the boys with whatever they needed her to do, but before she was even fully out of her chair, she swayed and started to fall back.

“Woah. Easy there,” John said, rushing forward to catch her in his arms. “Molly, you really need to go home and get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

Home sounded good, she had to admit. Being curled up in her warm bed, Toby faithfully by her side, her own furry space heater… some nice tea and a romantic movie on the telly… it was all so tempting. But she had four hours left of her shift, and how was she going to explain her sudden illness to Mike? “My shift–” she stammered, shakily rising to her feet and grabbing Sherlock’s arm for support.

“Can wait.” Sherlock said firmly, pressing a gentle kiss to his girlfriend’s burning forehead. “John will tell Mike Stamford that you’re unwell and going home early. I’ll call you a cab. You need to rest.”

Molly sighed. “All- all right.” she finally agreed, leaning into Sherlock’s warmth. She was absolutely  _ freezing _ , and underneath his Belstaff coat, he was practically radiating heat. His warmth was almost better than her bed. 

“Okay then.” Sherlock said, and without any warning, he scooped her into his arms. Molly let out a yelp of surprise- and pain- as the room went spinning on its axis again. “Time to leave.”

The pathologist clutched the lapels of his coat as the room slowly came back to normal. Her head pounded with pain, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Sherlock.” she whimpered, the only word she could grit out through the banging against her skull.

“It’s okay.” he soothed, slowing his walking so as not to jostle her too much. “I don’t want you on your feet, Molly. Just close your eyes and I’ll have you home in a few moments.”

Reality blurred as Molly fell in and out of sleep. She didn’t remember the walk out of the hospital, only that suddenly she was in a black taxicab, leaning curled in Sherlock’s lap as he directed the driver to Baker Street. Why weren’t they going to  _ her _ flat? She tried to protest, but she couldn’t get the words out and Sherlock encouraged her to go back to sleep. She heard John’s voice at one point, saying something about the flu, and she vaguely remembered being carried again as they got out of the cab.

She woke up several hours later on the couch at Baker Street feeling absolutely abysmal. How had she gotten here? Why wasn’t she at her own flat? Somebody needed to feed Toby. And she desperately needed something to drink- her mouth was as dry as a desert, and her throat burned. “Sherlock?”

He almost immediately dashed out of the kitchen and was by her side. “You’re awake.”

“Why am I here?” she mumbled, forcing herself to sit up. Several layers of blankets fell off of her as she moved- the chill of the room hit her like an icy wind and made her shiver. 

Sherlock immediately crouched down and wrapped the blankets around her again. “Baker Street is closer to Barts than your flat, so it made more sense to bring you here. Baker Street is also handily equipped with one Mrs. Hudson, who has so caringly gone to the chemist’s and purchased anything you may need while ill. How do you feel?”

Her foggy mind was having trouble making sense of it all. “Like hell.” she croaked, pulling the blankets tighter around her. “Can I have some medicine?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock nodded. “As I have learned from experience more than once, you must eat before taking cold pills. Shall I bring you some soup and a cup of tea?”

Molly nodded weakly. “Yes, please.” Sherlock leaned in to offer an affectionate kiss, but Molly swatted him away. “Don’t get close,” she croaked, “My breath smells  _ horrible. _ ”

The consulting detective chuckled as he went back into the kitchen to get her some food. He returned a moment later with a cup of tea and a small bowl of soup on a tray, which set on his lap after sitting down next to her on the couch. Sherlock collected some chicken broth on the spoon and raised it towards Molly.

“I can do it myself,” she insisted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll be cold if you take your arms out of the blanket.” he reasoned. Molly supposed he was right- and she had to admit, she was exhausted. The thought of not needing to move to get her soup was very appealing.

So she let him slowly feed her little spoonfuls of the chicken soup, which was warm in her stomach and soothed her burning throat on the way down. It was quite flavorful; there seemed to be multiple spices mixed into the broth, but not so much as to make her feel sicker. “What brand is this?” Molly asked in between bites.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he scooped another spoonful of broth out of the bowl. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t Mrs. Hudson get it at the grocer’s?” 

The detective’s eyes widened. “Oh, God no!” he exclaimed, giving her more of the broth in her mouth. “Those canned soups are riddled with sodium and preservatives, absolutely awful for the body. No, I made this. I don’t want you eating anything that will make you feel worse.”

Something warmed in Molly’s core- and it wasn’t the soup. Sherlock had  _ cooked  _ for her. He hated making food, claimed it took too much time away from cases and experiments. But he had done it for her- he was even taking time away from his work to take care of her. Every day she loved this man a little more.

Once she had finished the little bowl of soup, she was able to take some medicine and drink some tea. The hot beverage combined with the fever-lowering effects of the medication were already starting to make her feel a little better. With the help of painkillers as well, her headache was starting to fade. But she did feel very, very sleepy…

She laid down again, putting her head in Sherlock’s lap as though he was her pillow. He was usually quite averse to being so close in contact when his friends were sick, so Molly expected him to nudge her away, but instead pulled her a little closer and ran his fingers through her hair repeatedly. Molly sighed, miserable but content for now.

“You don’t have to do this.” she told him, looking up into his beautiful face. “I know you have work to do.”

Sherlock shook his head, looking at her as though she’d turned green. “Why would I be worried about cases right now? They can wait. The woman I love is sick, and I am taking care of her.” 

The fever had apparently broken Molly’s brain-to-mouth filter, and she blurted, “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Sherlock smiled a little and continued running his hand through her hair. “I love you, too, but I think it would be wise to save the kisses for when you are well. Now, shall I read to you?”

“That would be lovely.” Molly sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into him. Sherlock kept one hand in her hair, gently brushing her brown locks, as he read from Agatha Christie’s  _ Murder on the Orient Express.  _ Of course, even when at home tending to Molly, he would choose something that had to do with murder and solving a crime. Occasionally, he would make side comments such as– “Oh, this is so obvious” or “Why can’t they just  _ observe? _ ”– but he never spoiled the ending for her. A knock on the door interrupted their story- Molly’s eyes opened, and Sherlock set the book down but remained beside her. 

“Come in,” he called. The door opened, and DI Greg Lestrade stepped into the room looking quite frustrated.

“Why haven’t you been answering your mobile?” he demanded, everything from his voice to his posture radiating urgency. “There’s been an attempted murder, and the survivor insists he’ll only work with you. We need you at the scene now.”

Molly’s heart sunk. The case was probably at least a 7- the number Sherlock agreed he would leave the flat for. She knew work was more important than being her nurse, but it would be disappointing to have to be sick alone, even if she would sleep for most of the time he’d be gone. 

But to her surprise, Sherlock merely shrugged, looked at Greg, and said, “I’m busy, Geoff.” 

Lestrade’s eyes went wide. “Busy? Doing what? Come on, Sherlock, this has got to be at least a nine, or whatever bloody system you use to label your cases.” 

“The victim won’t deal with the police because he’s been embezzling money from his father-in-law’s pensions. He doesn’t want to be arrested and he knows I’m not official law enforcement.” Sherlock drawled in a bored tone. “His wife tried to kill him when she found out, but got cold feet at the last minute and fled. She will not try again.” 

The DI looked quite incredulous. “Come on! You’ve at least got to get a look at him first.” he didn’t seem to believe that Sherlock could know all of that just form a description of the case. 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not going. Molly is ill and I am taking care of her. I would suggest leaving now, Graham, unless you’d like to catch the flu, too.”

Lestrade shook his head and laughed. “Bloody hell. I can’t believe you, Sherlock. Molly’s turned you domestic!” He looked as though he wanted to poke fun at the matter, but he did do as suggested and leave before he could risk getting infected by Molly. Molly knew Sherlock was grateful that the DI did not have another opportunity to take the mickey out of him for turning “soft”. 

Molly didn’t say anything– she was too tired to form the words– but she was secretly satisfied that he’d turned down a case for her. She felt important, and most importantly, very, very loved. Sherlock continued reading to her from the mystery novel until a timer on his phone went off.

“Ah,” he said, snapping the book shut. “That’ll be your medicine timer. Time for another dose.” Molly scooted out of his lap, allowing him to get up to retrieve the plethora of medications she was currently on. The dedication he was putting into making her feel better absolutely warmed her heart.

But she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. Underneath it all, she knew he would have loved to go and take that case, to get that rush of adrenaline that solving crimes gave him. But instead he was stuck in 221B, with a lifeless Molly that did little more than eat and sleep and complain. She was as boring as they came.

“Sherlock.” she called, and he stopped in his tracks and turned around. “I… thank you. For taking care of me. I know you wanted to take that case.”

Sherlock came back to the sofa, crouching down in front of her. He cupped her face- covered in fever sweat, pale with bags under her eyes, and said, “Molly Hooper, when will you realize that you are the most important thing in my life? More than any mystery, even a triple murder. Besides, I’ve got a case to solve right here: figuring out why you continue to choose  _ me. _ ” and he looked at her with enough love in his face that Molly started to tear up. 

“That’s what I should be asking you.” Molly croaked, reaching out from under her nest of blankets to gently rub her thumb against his cheek. “Why do you choose  _ me _ , even when I’m boring and a load of work and ill?”

Sherlock leaned close to her and pressed his forehead against hers. Molly closed her eyes, basking in the moment, in the simple bliss in the feeling of  _ them _ … and also tried to not to breathe right into his nose. She still had sour sick-breath. “In sickness and in health, remember?” Sherlock murmured, his voice low. He kissed her on the cheek once before pulling away and standing up.

“But we’re not married.” Molly called after him in confusion, brows furrowing. 

The world’s only consulting detective turned back to look at her in the doorway of the kitchen, a smirk playing on his face. “Just practicing.” 

Molly Hooper, even though she was horribly ill, couldn’t hold back a smile. Oh, she would never love anyone more. 


End file.
